


blood and bone

by fatkoi



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bounty Hunters, Gen, Good Parent Jango Fett, I'm Sorry, One Shot, Post-Star Wars: Attack of the Clones, Revenge, Star Wars References, aurra sing would make a really creepy mom okay, quick trip on the slave i, respect for my space dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatkoi/pseuds/fatkoi
Summary: As the Slave I draws close to the Endurance, Boba Fett ponders his revenge, and his strange reliance on the twisted Bounty Hunter Aurra Sing.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	blood and bone

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is just a quick one-shot about Boba that I wrote instead of working on any of my other fics. I just watched Boba's first arc in The Clone Wars, and his dependance on Aurra Sing really creeped me out so I decided to write on it lol. I'm new to this fandom, especially TCW, and it's my first time writing a one-shot, so I'll appreciate any comments or suggestions you have to offer :).
> 
> TW: mentions of abuse/abuse of a minor

As the  _ Slave I  _ tumbled through hyperspace, Aurra Sing propped her boots against the table, and raised both hands above her head to fiddle with her comlink antenna. She was in a bad mood - she was  _ always _ in a bad mood - but even from across the cargo hold, Boba could tell that it was infinitely worse than usual. Currently polishing each piece of his blaster, he decided to stay in the shadows - today wasn’t the day to step on any toes, especially Sing’s. With every jostle their ship made, the Palliduvan would smack a fist against the hull, before cursing as she returned to her work, her antenna twisting in her hands, and a scowl twisting her face. Boba slowly slotted the pieces of his blaster back together, trying to make as little noise as possible.

One final, tremendous jostle proved the breaking point, and Sing jumped to her feet, tramping across the hold to jam the comm channel that connected them to the pilot’s seat. “Bossk!”

“It’s not his fault,” Boba called out, his response automatic, unthinking. Immediately he fought the urge to knock his head against his blaster.  _ Laserbrain _ . Why did he have to say anything?

Sniffing out his regret like it was a Lasat at a perfume-market, Aurra Sing sneered, moving her needle-like fingers to her hips. Boba hated the way she walked - hated the way she moved, like a skeleton, or even a clanker. Her joints would shift and bend in an eerie, almost uncoordinated way, her pale grey skin stretched so uncannily tight over her stone-sharp bones that it appeared she was already dead. As strolled towards him,  _ enjoying _ his obvious discomfort, Boba wondered, not for the first time, whether all Palliduvans were like her. 

“Something to add, Baby Bounty Hunter?” 

This was the test, one he would need to pass. As sure as she could detect worry, Sing was even more sensitive to its root cause: weakness. Boba knew that if she felt like it, Aurra Sing could cut him out of her ragtag little team. She could leave him stranded, lost on some outer-rim planet with no hope of getting home - or worse,  _ no hope of revenge _ . If she felt like it, she might even save herself the fuel and push him out the airlock. There was no sense carrying around dead-weight, especially in a profession as complicated as theirs. Sing wasn’t the most notorious Bounty Hunter Boba had worked with, but she was the one he was the most scared of - not that he could let her see it. 

Squaring his jaw, Boba looked up, not allowing his eyes even the slightest flicker. The blaster was heavy between his hands, too heavy to swing up into the space between them if he needed too, and as Sing closed the distance, the possibility of pulling the trigger vanished like a ship crossing atmosphere. He wouldn't be able to get a shot off in time, and she already had her hands, poised like claws, near her holster. He tightened his grip, shifting his shoulders, trying to look unconcerned. “I said it’s not his fault. Castas said the stabilizer fritzed on Kuat. Next time we land in a hangar I can fix it - but it won’t affect the hyperdrive unless we take a hit.”

Her shadow fell across him like the eclipse of a moon. “I know what Castas said.”

“I can fix it.” Of course he could. Even though Aurra Sing was the boss, and the rest of them followed her orders, they were still on Boba’s ship. His  _ father’s _ ship. He knew it better than anyone, knew how to fix any problem, whether it be with the motivator, engine, or stabilizer. Some of his earliest memories were of himself, perched in Jango’s lap, craning to see through the transparisteel as his father pointed out the different buttons and knobs on the control board. Jango’s voice had been calm and patient - as if he had all the time in the world. 

The rest of them were trespassers, and everyday it became more and more clear that they didn’t belong. Traces of Jango were everywhere, like fingerprints along a chrome helmet. Every adjustment Sing and her crew made wiped them away. 

Even the fact that he currently sat in the cargo hold, instead of the pilot’s chair, gnawed at Boba’s sense of familiarity. It would make sense for him to be piloting, or operating the weapons system - seeing as he had learned to do both before he could spell. The only reason he wasn’t trading seats with Bossk was because - well, Aurra Sing didn’t  _ trust _ him. There was an edge to her fanatical control over him, one that was constantly digging into Boba like the blade of a knife. Sing was prone to acting like she was on his side, like she  _ cared _ about his revenge, like she cared about him, even. But all that was lies - or if it wasn’t, he couldn’t understand it. 

Sing seemed to want to act like a teacher, his own personal Bounty Hunter mentor. She imparted lesson after lesson. On Cyrkon she worked on his slicing; in the Iakar system, his knowledge of poisons; on Chandrila, his interrogation tactics - and when he had refused to break the finger of the Rodian they were trying to question, she had broken three of his. 

Aurra Sing loved to hurt Boba Fett. She thrived off the obedience of her crew, but his was a resolve she seemed unusually inclined to break. There was always something - some tiny misstep, a crumb of defiance she would attempt to crush between her blade-like fingers. The lightest punishment meant a shove into the wall of the cargo hold, a more serious one meant he would be sucking his Blackroot juice through a straw for a week while his face healed. 

All the while, their leader carried on like she was a golden saviour. If you didn’t look too close, you’d think she was a high ranking Senator by the way she regarded herself and her teachings. Boba wouldn’t dare correct her. There was no use in telling Sing and the rest of their crew that the only man he had ever respected had been buried years ago.

Eyes dark, Aurra Sing reached forward, and tugged none-too-gently at a lock of his hair. “Alright, next time we land in a hangar, the stabilizer is all yours.” Her grip tightened. “But honey, Bossk is one of the worst mudscuffing pilots I’ve ever seen - don’t stop me from trying to correct that.” 

As her skeletal fingers departed, Boba fought the urge to shudder. The joints were so elongated it looked like she might have grown an extra knuckle, the skin so pale her hand could have been a dead thing in the water. His father’s hands had been strong and brown. When he would pick Boba up, swinging him by his arms or lifting him onto his shoulders, they were always soft - except for the callus that lined the inside of his thumb where it would rest against the handle of his blaster. Even that small imperfection was as familiar as the lines of Jango Fett’s face, or the scar which curved over one cheek that would fold when he smiled. 

It was as if his father’s presence was always balanced against Sing’s strange maternalism. When she pulled his hair he was reminded of the way Jango tousled it. A hit brought to mind the way Jango would lick his thumb before rubbing grime off Boba’s face. Any yelling was juxtaposed by Jango’s rambling stories, full of awful puns and winks, as if Boba was included in every flat joke (Mas Amedda, more like  _ Mass _ Amedda). Boba didn’t understand how his father could have ever worked with Aurra Sing - the pair of them were so different. 

He understood that their job was the same - he knew that his father was a killer. But that was the law of the galaxy, and if Jango was a killer, then so was Boba. However ruthless his father could be on the hunt, aiming his blaster with precision, working through pawns to keep his hands clean, scouring his allies of information - he was never needlessly cruel. His work was calculated, efficient - Jango Fett operated with honor, despite the actions of his associates. (Boba had only met Count Dooku  _ once _ , and even then his father had stood between them, his body an unconscious shield that Boba had been too nervous to peer around). 

There weren’t many good fathers - even in a galaxy as vast as theirs - but Jango was one.  _ Had been _ one. That was the catch. As Aurra Sing strove to erase Jango’s influence and imprint her own, Boba missed his father more and more. And the more he missed him - an aching blaster wound in the centre of his chest - the greater his desire for revenge grew. Sometimes he even  _ dreamt _ about Mace Windu: nightmares twisted with the thousands of ways he would kill the old Jedi, the glow of his purple lightsaber washed over everything like the light of emergency beacons. When he woke, alarms blared inside his ears, his bunk was full of the smell of cauterized blood, and there was a feeling, like the kiss of cool metal, against his forehead. 

It didn’t help that everywhere he looked, he found his father’s face - the face that would soon be his own. There were troops around every corner of the galaxy, wayward clones in every spaceport, deserters even in the darkest edges of the outer rim - they would plant their blasters in the dirt of some forgotten planet and hope the war didn’t follow them there. But Boba saw them; he knew them all. And with every clone they met, Jango’s absence widened like a cavern through his heart. 

For revenge he needed Aurra Sing. And for money, Aurra Sing needed him. That was the truth, and it was a truth upon which they agreed.

Still, there was something in her twisted motherly presence that sent needles trailing up and down his spine. Something in her bloodthirsty encouragement, in her ever-present touch, in the way her eyes seemed to  _ follow _ him wherever he went, made him feel like their ship was constantly about to de-pressurize.  _ Danger, danger, danger _ . Only one thing was clear. Boba wasn’t safe here. 

Before Aurra could regain her seat, the comms crackled, and Bossk’s lizard-like voice seeped through. “Coming out of hyperspace in one minute, boss.” The ship gave a resounding rattle in answer. 

A flame twirled in the dead-green of Sing’s eyes. They danced darkly, gleefully, as she extended a hand to Boba. Without question, he followed, leaving his blaster behind as he did, and trying not to send a wayward glance back towards his only weapon. Pulling him by the shoulder of his tunic, Sing sidestepped Castas to stand behind Bossk’s chair. 

Staring into the swirling expanse of hyperspace, Aurra Sing squared her shoulders, the bones shifting underneath her skin as she did so, so sharp it looked as though they might tear through. Smiling, she tightened her hold on Boba’s shirt, her thumb brushing, cold, against the back of his neck. Boba twisted his hands in his pockets. He  _ needed _ her. His vengeance was so close he could  _ taste _ it, like someone had left a metal credit under his tongue. 

It was only once the  _ Slave I _ shuddered out of hyperspace - coming to a stumbling halt alongside the Republic  _ Endurance _ \- that Boba realized the coppery feeling in his mouth wasn’t triumph - only blood. 

  
  



End file.
